


You Could Be Good For Me (Pt.1)

by WriterIGuessIsTaken



Category: Marvel, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterIGuessIsTaken/pseuds/WriterIGuessIsTaken
Summary: You'd always loved the men that would cum, and go. On the nights you decided you didn't want another gruff voiced, rough handed man of few words, you got yourself off. On one such night, you encounter a shadow, perfectly fitting your general taste, in the dark outside your apartment. Will you interfere, and make room for another visitor, another tourist, in your bed?
Kudos: 2





	You Could Be Good For Me (Pt.1)

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR’S NOTE: Heyo, readers. It’s me, the author. So, I have some pertinent info for you. The Punisher described in this thangy is based off of Jon Bernthal’s character on the Marvel Punisher tv show, not the Punisher described in the comics. I am basing this off of fantasies, themes that I found interesting, and knowledge that I have collected from watching the tv show. As someone who has done minimal research and wrote this at four o’clock in the morning, I apologize if he is super OOC. All characters involved are 18+, all activities are consensual. Anyway, this ends the pertinent information. The rest is just so I don’t get in trouble. :)  
> I DO NOT OWN THE CHARACTERS INVOLVED IN THIS STORY, MARVEL DOES, AND NOW DISNEY DOES, WHICH SUCKS BECAUSE THE MARVEL TV SHOWS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME BUT ANYWAY, PLEASE DON’T SUE ME.  
> WARNINGS: Masturbation, Mentions of parental abuse/neglect, Fighting/Violence, Size kink, Language, Graphic smut, Unprotected sex (Don’t be shitty, ask for consent, Wrap that shit to prevent Becoming an unwilling par-ent so yeah)

You’d always loved men who weren’t really there for you. Men whose grizzled faces belied no affection when they looked down at you as they ground out their satisfaction. Men who made you feel small, not quite safe, but sheltered by proximity, like a barnacle on the indifferent hull of a ship. You were okay with that. No matter how deep inside of you they got, they never stuck around. The in and out, cum and go through your door kept you grounded, wise to the way this city worked, with everyone just trying to get theirs, and if you got in their way, don’t be surprised if you get shit on.  
Some nights you flew solo, perfectly content to spend the evening with a hand between your legs, the other clutching at your nipples, alone with your thoughts and the voice of a mystery man from the internet whimpering into your ear. It was on one such night that you met Frank Castle. 

The thrum and thunder of the street outside your shitty aparentment’s window had been dampened to a quiet roar by your earbuds. Your face was set aglow by your phone screen as you scrolled through page after page of links to dissatisfying audios, trying to find the one with the perfect balance of rasping dominance and breathless submission. You growled low in your throat with frustration, thumb briefly pausing in stroking your clit to readjust your panties. You rarely bothered to fully remove your underwear when you were alone, preferring to pull them to the side or just put your hand down the front. After all, why bother with no one to impress.  
You chose an audio and turned off your screen, settling back into the old, lumpy mattress you’d brought with you across state lines, through three different apartments, and any number of short term, nocturnal occupants. You closed your eyes, allowed the cozy, faintly musky smell of your bedroom to fill your nostrils, and relaxed. As you tuned into the audio again, you felt a gentle burning rush in your lower abdomen at a particularly lustful groan on the other end. Spreading your legs and bringing your knees up, you pushed your two longest fingers into yourself and curled them in, and up, toward your wrist, flexing and relaxing them quickly. You gasped and thrust your hips up slightly, grinding into your palm. Your other hand grasped first at the soft flesh on the inside of your thigh, squeezing hard, then drew your hand upwards, brushing your fingers along the skin all the way to your breasts, nipples hardening, shivering as the gentle caresses raised goosebumps and a tingling sensation just under the surface.  
You’d barely reached your tits when an ungodly loud crash interrupted your haze. Your eyes flew open, taking a moment to adjust in the dark, your fingers stopping cold inside of you. You sighed heavily and shifted your hands up to rest on either side of you on the tangled sheets and scattered blankets. If living in New York City had taught you anything, it was to mind your own business. Whether it was a ten car pileup or another vigilante with misguided motives and some serious grey area morals getting shot, it wasn’t your mistake, so it wasn’t your problem, but damn was it a mood killer.  
Despite knowing the futility of any investigation, you decided to indulge your human curiosity and sat up, looking toward the window. Even if you could see anything from your current vantage point other than the mouldering reddish brown brick wall of JR’s Pies, a small, yet obnoxiously apparent pizzeria that stood across a small alleyway from your apartment building, what could you do? If you called the cops, they would take at least a half hour to arrive and by then, you knew, any perpetrator would be long gone.  
You deliberated for a few seconds, mind dancing between your pathetically unaroused body and the distinctively intriguing events that could be unfolding outside. The decision was made as soon as another bone rattling crash, immediately followed by what sounded like a gunshot, shattered your thoughts. You wrenched your earbuds from your ears as you swung your legs out from under the mass of maroon polyester sheets and faded quilt that haphazardly lumped together on the bottom third of your bed and ran to the window, damning the cheap venetian blinds that so stubbornly refused to give way in any sort of organized formation. After a minute or so of furiously wrestling the abominable invention, you had managed to coax the wooden slats into a sort of extreme diagonal through which you had a somewhat unobscured view into the nuanced dark of the alley.  
This close to the raw pulse of a city that never slept, you felt both energized by the electric hum and flashing neon lights of lower Manhattan, and exhausted by the sheer expansive endlessness of it all. You sensed a shrinking of self, a sort of distant kinship with the other inhabitants of this seemingly endless city, in which you could be lost, abandoned, forgotten, but never truly alone. The macabre optimism of this thought was swiftly overtaken by the all too familiar crushing insignificance that always accompanied a reminder of the triviality of your own existence.  
You were thrust back into the life you had left behind, when every Sunday you would be beaten down to less than nothing by the pastor’s sermon, reminded of the unadulterated hatred merciful God had for you for being human, and brought yet lower by the suffocating silence of that house. The holy hush was only broken when one parent needed to vent their spleen on either spouse or child for possessing the audacity to take up space in a world already made too small by the imaginary shackles plucked from the virulent mind of a man high off of the power allotted him by God Himself.  
Your eyes flickered, breath quickening as a panic attack clawed and writhed its way up your throat. You clenched your eyelids together, focusing your attention first on your ragged breathing, soothing it back into a normal flow. In through the mouth, out through the nose. *Be conscious of your breath, but don’t force it.* Once you could feel the flood waters receding and your thoughts once again erupted in a somewhat organized fashion, you drew in a deep, trembling breath and clutched the small window sill until your knuckles glowed white under your skin.* No,* you thought, *no way am I going to allow those motherfuckers ruin another moment of my life. I am worth giving a damn about, and I deserve to take up as much fucking space as I want.*  
You swallowed the small lump that had risen in your throat and refocused on the world outside of your own head. Before your eyes, subtly nuanced shadows rushed and billowed like sheets tossed into the greedy arms of a tornado. As you watched, one particularly large form danced close in with another shape, swinging hard and striking low. You gasped as the shape folded over the fist and flew backward, into the side of one of the three dark green dumpsters that lined the dingy outer wall of the pizzeria. The shadow slumped against the bin, another indiscernible lump among the others already collapsed at the end of the alleyway.  
You leaned closer to the windowpane, pressing your nose almost flush with the chill glass in an attempt to make out more of the scene before you. As you did so, the larger shape that had launched the other into the side of the decrepit dumpster hunched, clutching its side, apparently in pain. After violently shaking for a few moments, the shape seemed to regain its composure, lifting its head and allowing his face to be set aglow by the bright red light emanating from the neon sign set out front of JR’s.


End file.
